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ODE ON THE MORNING 
OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY 
BY JOHN MILTON ^^ Mt 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
WALTER TAYLOR FIELD 




PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY 

SAN FRANCISCO AND NEW YORK 



;;i}rtARYotCOf«RFSs| 
\wo Ooptes RecelY«} 

Copynitht^ntry I 
AS* A ^c., No. I 
COPY ti. 



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.1 



COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY 
WALTER TAYLOR FIELD 



MILTON IN THE NATIVITY ODE 

f^ Milton we find two personalities inter- 
fused and blended into^ one. He is, first^ 
the courtly gentleman, the accomplished 
musician, the elegant scholar, the warm- 
hearted friend of Charles Diodati and Edward 
King ; again, he is the great unfathomable one, the 
preacher of morality, the apostle of liberty, the 
searcher of Divine mysteries. There is a wide 
difference between the poet of Comus and the 
prophet of Paradise Lost, yet in each are the two 
natures. The growing preponderance of the 
sterner qualities was due partly to an evolution of 
character under the stress of bitter personal ex- 
periences, — loss of sight, loss of fortune, loss of 
position and influence,— but, more than this, to the 
growing spirit of religious austerity which marked 
the seventeenth century in England and which 
culminated in Cromwell and the Commonwealth. 
Standing historically between the Elizabethan 
era and the Puritan Reformation, he showed the 



influence of both,— his earlier work having more 
of brightness, his later more of cold sublimity. 
Like a tall cathedral spire at sunset, we see him 
on the one side glorified by the light of a fading 
day, on the other wrapped in the shadows. 

For many years it ^vas the Puritan Milton who 
•was known in literature. He ^vas considered only 
as the poet of Paradise Lost,— lofty, majestic, far- 
seeing, profound, clothed in the mantle of philos- 
ophy, moving like a seer along the highway of his 
verse. But more recently attention has been at- 
tracted to his Elizabethan qualities, not only in the 
Paradise Lost but particularly in his so-called 
minor poems — which are minor only in respect 
to size, and which include L' Allegro and II Pen- 
seroso, that superb pair of lyrics; Comus, the 
peerless masque ; Lycidas, the elegy which unites 
delicacy with passion ; and the Ode on the Nativ- 
ity, with its burst of pure religious ecstacy. 

Of them all, the Ode on the Nativity is per- 
haps the least read and yet the most truly repre- 
sentative. It lacks the flawless elegance of L' Al- 
legro and II Penseroso, the hghtness of Comus 
and the intensity of Lycidas, but it shows, more 
than any other poem of Milton's, I believe, the 



two sides of his genius. It is joyous and yet 
earnest; bright and yet full of a stately dignity 
which is a prophecy of the grandeur of Paradise 
Lost. 

Its faults were those which were bequeathed 
to its author by a former generation,— by Donne 
and others of his school, who were the popular 
poets of Milton's earlier years. A few strained 
metaphors and overwrought comparisons mark 
this influence, but the strength, the vigor, the 
polish, the sincerity of it, were new in English 
literature and announced the advent of a poet of 
heroic mould. 

Milton wrote the Ode while in college at 
Cambridge. Prior to this he had produced a few 
unimportant poems, metrical versions of two of 
the Psalms composed at fifteen, a few creditable 
Latin elegies and several ordinary pieces of Eng- 
lish verse. On the Christmas morning of his 
twenty-first year, however, inspired by the sweet 
significance of the day and filled with the spirit 
of peace and joy with which it has touched so 
many hearts,he launched into this first of his real 
flights of song. His sixth Latin epistle, written 
soon after to Charles Diodati, describes the cir- 



cumstance. He says : "But if you will know what 
I am doing, ... I am singing the King of 
Heaven, bringer of peace, and the fortunate days 
promised by the Holy Book, the wanderings of 
God and the stabling under a poor roof of Him 
who rules with his Father the realms above ; the 
star that led the wizards, the hymning of angels 
in the air and the gods flying to their endangered 
fanes. This poem I made as a birthday gift for 
Christ ; the first light of Christmas dawn brought 
me the theme." 

Its burden is Peace on Earth. No sound of 
war breaks the stillness of the holy night. The 
shepherds, talking together as they watch their 
flocks, are suddenly greeted with such music as 
^vas never heard before save when the sons of 
morning sang together in the dawn of the Crea- 
tion. Cherubim and seraphim with outstretched 
wings, a radiant circle in the heavens, strike their 
harps in honor of their new-born Lord. The 
ancient gods have lost their power; the oracles 
are dumb; the nymphs have left the haunted 
springs ; the priests and flamens see strange prod- 
igies before the altars. In vain they call upon 
their pagan deities, the Babe of Bethlehem has 



conquered them. But the mother lays the Holy 
Child to rest while the youngest star of heaven 
holds her lamp above him, and angels surround 
the manger where he lies. 

Such is the argument, — a simple theme, and 
yet clothed with a beauty of phrase and imagery 
which gives it singular distinction. It is this 
elaboration of detail, together with an essential 
dignity of movement and musical cadence that 
designate the Miltonic touch. The ornament is 
not confined to happy phraseology ; it embraces 
a wealth of allusion, a breadth of knowledge, a sug- 
gestiveness that appeal particularly to the scholar. 
Few other poets have been able to put so much 
into a phrase. '*I like Milton and Butler," said 
Dr. Johnson, once, to Boswell, "because they 
make me think." This thought stimulus together 
with a rare classical influence makes the read- 
ing of Milton an education. Says Matthew Ar- 
nold: "In our race are thousands of readers, 
presently there will be millions, who do not know 
a word of Greek and Latin, and will never learn 
those languages. If this host of readers are ever 
to gain any sense of the power and charm of the 
great poets of antiquity, their way to gain it is not 



through translations of the ancients, but through 
the original poetry of Milton, who has the like 
power and charm, because he has the like great 
style. ' 

But perhaps the most remarkable quality of 
Milton's verse is its melody. We do not need to 
be told that he was an accomplished musician, 
and that his father was a musician before him. 
His verse shows the musical ear. It has in it a 
subtle power which is akin to magic. We need 
not try to analyze it, for it eludes analysis ; but we 
cannot fail to be moved by it. Children are 
moved by it, not knowing what it means. Those 
majestic Alexandrines, which make the last line of 
each stanza in the Ode, were in form borrowed 
from Spenser, from whom Milton in his earlier 
poems borrowed much, — but there is something 
in them distinctly Miltonic. Then, too, they sug- 
gest so much. We feel the solemnity and the 
mystery of the Incarnation in that hne, 

"And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay." 

We feel the peace of the new era of love and 
good will in the phrase, 

"While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." 



We feel the majesty of Omnipotence in the words, 

"And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep." 

Even the names of the pagan gods, in the twenty- 
second and succeeding stanzas, roll out with a 
a largeness that commands respect. 

It must not be thought that this music and this 
beauty came to Milton as an inspiration. His 
work was not that of an improvisatore, but of a 
painstaking and consummate artist. Every word 
was chosen and every phrase polished. A manu- 
script of his in the library of Christ's College, 
Cambridge, shows erasures and recastings which 
proves the efficacy of careful work as opposed to 
slipshod rhapsodizing. 

But, after all, the greatness of Milton's verse 
is not in its haunting melody, nor in its beauty of 
phrase, nor in its intellectuality. It arises out of 
the greatness of the poet himself. In it we see 
Milton the patriot, the reformer, the idealist, the 
high-minded Christian, the stainless hero; his in- 
dividuality is stamped upon every line that he ever 
wrote. **He who would not be frustrate of his 
hope to write well hereafter in laudable things," 
he says quaintly, in the Apology for Smectym- 



nuus, "ought himself be a true poem." This is 
the secret of the vitality of Milton's work. It is 
vivified and ennobled by the character which 
shines out through it. 

The traveler may climb today the narrow stair- 
case which leads to Milton's quarters at Christ's, 
Cambridge,— may stand in the little room in 
which the Ode on the Nativity was begun on that 
Christmas morning nearly three hundred years 
ago, may look out of the window and see the 
roofs and turrets and bit of lawn which Milton 
saw,— all these are suggestive of the tangible 
presence of a great poet,— but to know Milton 
and to realize the greatness of his work, one must 
look farther than mere externals ; he must have 
a spiritual insight which will let him look deeply, 
a sympathy with the scholar's hfe which will 
let him look appreciatively, a pure heart which 
will let him look clearly. A sincere admiration 
for Milton is the touchstone of character. If one 
can take this great soul into his own, he may feel 
that he is in some sense, himself, above the little- 
nesses of life. 

• 

Walter Taylor Field 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

(COMPOSED 1629) 

I 
^BWHIS is the month, and this the happy morn, 
m U Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 
^■P^Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 

Our great redemption from above did bring; 
For so the holy sages once did sing, 

That he our deadly forfeit should release. 
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

II 

That glorious form, that light unsufferable. 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 



To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside, and, here with us to be, 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal 
clay. 

Ill 
Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God ? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain. 
To welcome him to this his new abode, 
Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
bright? 

IV 

See how from far upon the eastern road 

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet 1 

Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode, 



And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire, 
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire. 



THE HYMN 

I 

It was the winter wild, 
While the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 
Nature, in awe to him. 
Had doffed her gaudy trim. 
With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. 

II 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 
And on her naked shame. 
Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 



Ill 

But he, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : 
She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 
And waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and 
land. 

IV 

No war, or battle's sound. 
Was heard the world around ; 

The idle spear and shield were high uphung ; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the arm^d throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 



5 



V 

But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began. 
The winds, with wonder Avhist, 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
wave. 

VI 

The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
Bending one way their precious influence. 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow. 
Until their Lord himself bespake and bid them go. 



VII 

And, though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 
The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed. 
And hid his head for shame, 
As his inferior flame 
The new-enlightened world no more should need: 
He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne or burning axletree could 
bear. 

VIII 

The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or ere the point of dawn, 
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
Full little thought they than 
That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them below : 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 



IX 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 
As never was by mortal finger strook, 
Divinely- warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 
As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 
close. 

X 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done. 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling : 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 



8 



XI 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shamefaced Night ar- 
rayed ; 
The helmed cherubim 
And sworded seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire. 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born 
Heir. 

XII 

Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made, 
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 
While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced World on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep. 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel 
keep. 



XIII 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time; 
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

XIV 

For, if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long. 
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 
day. 



10 



XV 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 
Mercy will sit between. 
Throned in celestial sheen, 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall 

XVI 

But wisest Fate says No, 
This must not yet be so ; 
The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss. 
So both himself and us to glorify: 
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through 
the deep, 



11 



XVII 

With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire and smouldering clouds out- 
brake : 
The aged Earth, aghast 
With terror of that blast, 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake. 
When, at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his 
throne. 

XVIII 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
But now begins ; for from this happy day 
The Old Dragon under ground, 
In straiter limits bound, 
Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 



12 



XIX 

The Oracles are dumb; 
No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell. 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

XX 

The lonely mountains o'er, 
And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale, 
The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets 
mourn. 



13 



XXI 

In consecrated earth, 
And on the holy hearth, 
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; 
In urns, and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the flamens at their service quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. 

XXII 

Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; 
And mooned Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine : 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn ; 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 



14 



XXIII 

And sullen Moloch, fled, 
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

XXIV 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green. 
Trampling the unshowered grass with lo wings 
loud; 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest; 
Nought but prof oundest Hell can be his shroud ; 
In vain, w^ith timbreled anthems dark. 
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. 



15 



XXV 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded Infant's hand ; 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned 
crew. 

XXVI 

So, when the sun in bed. 
Curtained with cloudy red. 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave. 
And the yellow -skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved 
maze. 



16 



XXVII 

But see! the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
Time is our tedious song should here have ending: 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car, 
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. 



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